Page 18 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dante

There’s something instinctively soothing about holding a beer bottle in one hand and a weapon in the other.

It appeals to both of a man’s baser instincts in one go.

Words can’t explain the tremor that runs through me as I take a swig of booze while testing the weight of a pistol in my grip.

It’s a comforting heaviness. Familiar. My head feels clearer when I set it onto the counter and finally glance at Arno from my periphery.

“So, who is she?”

The man sighs. I doubt he’s slept. He reeks of booze and sweat. Dark circles line his eyes like shadows. Nursing his own beer, he takes a sip of it. “Vincent Stacatto’s whore,” he finally says.

Whore. Something about that word doesn’t fit when applied to the girl upstairs. Someone’s pet? Maybe. A debutante mob-princess? Perhaps. But whore? No.

I picture the way she moved, even when half dumb with pain. She never let her posture slouch. She kept that pert little nose high in the air. She never flinched away from meeting my gaze, and the way she pampered herself in the bathroom was as if she’d been at the fucking Ritz-Carlton.

That woman is no whore.

“What’s her name?” I don’t know why I care. This time tomorrow, she’ll be dead anyway—if she’s lucky.

Arno grunts. “The fuck if I know.” He raises his bottle to his lips again and takes several long pulls, draining it in seconds.

With a belch, he slams the bottle onto the counter and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I just need to get this shit over with,” he growls.

“That fucking bastard... He will pay.”

“Parish—”

Arno flinches at the sound of her name, and I feel something that could be guilt burn through my chest.

“The video didn’t... How do you know for sure that she’s dead?”

It’s no use beating around the bush, and Arno shrugs, his expression grim. “The video came with the address of a morgue. She was one of their Jane Does. Dead three hours by the time we found her. Apparent overdose.”

I exhale sharply. “I’m—”

“Don’t,” Arno snarls. He curls one of his hands into a fist and slams it hard against the counter. “Don’t say anything. Just fucking help me.”

“All right.” I take another swig of beer and face the row of shelves behind the bar.

It’s decently stocked. Arno wasn’t kidding when he boasted about having good booze. He’s done well for himself, it seems—but every mad dog knows that a nice pile of bones has to come from the body of another beast.

“Who is Stacatto?”

A dangerous sound rumbles up in Arno’s chest. “A dead man,” he says.

“Some asshole punk who fell into good fortune. He used to run with Capella, back when the bastard was living. Was his little pet prick. When Capella’s ‘organization’ folded seven years ago, Stacatto took over the shitstorm that remained, and now, the asshole thinks he runs the fucking city. ”

“Capella.” The name holds a flavor of recognition. I picture a face: old and worn with a mole on the chin. “I remember him.” An Italian bastard who liked to think of himself as the last bastion of the old mob.

“May he rest in Hell,” Arno growls, spitting onto the floor. “Vinny used to be content with his side of the fucking river. But, now, he’s starting to overstep his boundaries. Needs to be taught his goddamn place in the pecking order.”

I nod. Arno not only got territorial—he got greedy.

“What did you do?”

“I...” He clenches his fists and shakes his head. “I sent him a little present that he didn’t take to kindly to.”

“You tried to kill him.” I scoff and take another sip of my beer.

He doesn’t deny it. “It’s business. But the asshole crossed a line with Parish. You don’t—” He breaks off, gritting his teeth so fiercely that I can hear them grinding together. “There are just some fucking lines you don’t cross.”

It’s all bullshit, of course. Something he tells himself out loud to relieve the burning sting of guilt he feels for his sister. But, if he were given the chance to do it all over again, I know that Arno wouldn’t hesitate. A mad dog has to fight for his share of the junkyard, after all.

“So, your idea of revenge is torturing his fiancée.” While not exactly my method of choice, I can’t fault the bastard for flair. An eye for an eye; a woman for a woman.

Arno chuckles darkly and swipes a mass of red hair from his face. “It comes with the territory.”

Vincent Stacatto. He’s the same man Van Hallen was bitching about, apparently for good reason.

“I guess there’s a reason why you haven’t shown that video to the cops?”

Arno gives me an odd look. “Stacatto owns the fucking police. The bastard’s even got judges in his pocket. They’d arrest my ass for possessing illegal pornography or some shit without even touching Stacatto.”

“Hmph.” I digest that newest tidbit of information while downing another sip of beer. Van Hallen didn’t bother to mention that.

“So, where is she?” Arno asks suddenly. He stands up and begins to pace. Something tells me that part of what kept him up all night is plotting ways to use her to make Stacatto suffer.

I jab my thumb at the ceiling. “Upstairs.”

“Alone?” Arno raises an eyebrow. “You lock her in a closet or something?”

I shake my head, feeling no need to lie. “She’s in the room.”

Arno comes to a complete stop. “You left her unguarded?”

“You told me to keep an eye on her,” I point out. “She won’t run.”

My voice comes out self-assured. Despite not being restrained or beaten or threatened, the woman won’t run.

I know that without being able to explain it.

Besides, to leave the upper level, she’d have to march right through this very room on her way out or take her chances by jumping out the damn window—and suicide isn’t very ladylike.

“You better fucking hope not,” Arno mutters darkly, but he has enough sense to keep the words from becoming a threat. “I’ll do it today,” he swears. “I’ll gather the boys. Make a game of it. Tie the little bitch up like a pig.”

“Where?” I ask purely out of curiosity. Arno has my loyalty, but I won’t stick around for his little party. There are more important bones for this mutt to sniff at. Other old hydrants to check for new piss. First and foremost, I need to find Espi.

“The basement,” Arno says, but he doesn’t sound sure. It’s like he’s pulling the details out of his ass, too blinded by rage to come up with a solid plan.

“And what if her man comes looking for her? ”

The thought makes him chuckle. “He can try, but he won’t find her here.” He shoots me an icy grin from over his shoulder. “Don’t forget: Even you couldn’t sniff me out when I didn’t want you to, Kitty .”

Fair enough. I stare up at the ceiling and picture the woman whose fate is about as fragile as the bottle in my fist. How a woman like that fell into the hands of a man like Stacatto, I’ll never know.

Maybe boarding schools don’t keep a tight enough grip on their budding debutantes these days?

She has to be some rich man’s daughter. There’s an air of aristocracy about her—though definitely the degenerate kind with more debts to their name than money.

Her mask is similar to the ones worn by disgraced stockbrokers or vengeful widows who were desperate enough to seek out a man like me in order to enact their “due justice.” Every little breath she takes is a carefully crafted lie.

A part of me wants to dissect it—the meaning behind those scars on her ass or the dark hint of a tattoo that crosses her torso.

The fact that I’m curious makes me clench my jaw, and I drain my beer of every last drop.

Everyone knows what happens when curiosity meets the fucking cat.

“You gonna stick around?” Arno doesn’t seem surprised when I shake my head.

“I have business to take care of,” I say.

“You mean finding Espi?”

I don’t deny it. I don’t exactly use the opportunity to have a fucking heart-to-heart, either. While I trust Arno with my life, some things are best kept only between brothers.

“I’ll try to keep a low profile.” It’s the least I can do.

Van Hallen’s countdown is still going. I have three days left to make a full week free from bars. Maybe I’d send the bastard a thank-you card when I finally pass that deadline. On the other hand, maybe he’d gloat over my ass in a prison cell by that time.

“Can...” Arno hesitates. He won’t make eye contact.

“Can you at least bring the bitch down to the cellar? I’ll have one of my boys watch her.

I know you’re not a fucking babysitter,” he says before I can respond.

“But I can’t... I’ll kill her, Dante. With my own fucking hands.

” He flexes the limbs in question as if imagining them wrapped around her throat.

“It’s best if there’s a fucking camera around when I see her again. ”

I nod. “No problem.”

My muscles protest when I stand and stretch both arms over my head.

How ironic. I thought that it might take longer than four days to fall back into some semblance of my old life.

The shackles of the animal I am have found me again without my even having to seek them out.

It’s one thing I’ve always been good at: letting trouble find me first before I even begin to hunt for it.

With a sigh, I leave Arno and head for the stairs.

It’s a short trip to the upper level, where a handful of doors lead to separate apartments.

Mine is the third from the right, and when I brace my hand against the knob, I’m surprised to find that I left it unlocked.

Entirely by accident or out of some sick test devised for the woman within? Even I’m not sure. Not really.